Winston's manicured fingers suddenly froze against his brow, his knuckles turning bone-white with suppressed tension.
"This is the Continental Hotel, Anthony. It is an institution forged entirely upon absolute rules and regulations. Do you honestly believe the High Table is nothing more than a playground for chaotic street gangs?"
Winston lowered his voice, each word sounding as if it were violently squeezed out from between his teeth.
"Rules? Are you genuinely lecturing me about the rules, Winston?" A profound, freezing chill returned to Anthony's eyes.
"John followed your sacred rules exactly, Winston. So tell me, why was he forced to pick up a gun again the exact second he finished his contract?"
Upon hearing Anthony's piercing accusation, Winston's aristocratic expression turned exceedingly unpleasant.
"The current 'rules' you revere so deeply are nothing more than a bureaucratic mechanism used by the powerful to build graves out of gold coins, completely burying anyone who accidentally gets in their way," Anthony continued ruthlessly.
Winston was entirely incapable of refuting Anthony's specific accusation regarding Santino's blatant treachery. It was an undeniable, objective fact.
However, as the Manager of the New York Continental, enforcing the hotel's absolute, apparent neutrality and order was Winston's primary, overriding responsibility.
"The rules of this world are not for you and me to decide, Anthony!"
Winston's voice carried heavy, suppressed anger laced with a hint of genuine anxiety.
"The Adjudicators possess their own terrifying methods of upholding the High Table's statutes. Taking hostile action against a guest inside the Continental Hotel is the ultimate violation, and that specific rule is absolute."
Winston was practically growling now.
Anthony simply tilted his head slightly, adopting a falsely innocent expression, though his tone remained as icy as a glacier.
"Do not worry yourself into an ulcer, Winston. I deeply respect the rules. I respect the terrifying authority of the Adjudicator. I promise you, I will not lay a single finger on Santino inside this lobby."
"I am merely sitting here, waiting for him to arrive. And then, I am going to watch him... leave."
Anthony spoke the final word incredibly casually, but it caused Winston's heart to violently sink.
A profound, suffocating sense of imminent dread rapidly rose in the Manager's chest.
Winston sharply raised a hand. Three massive, heavily armed Hotel Enforcers immediately stepped out from the shadows, approaching Anthony's table.
"Keep an absolute, unrelenting watch on this man. If he attempts to execute a single action that violates the rules of this sanctuary, forcefully subdue him immediately," Winston commanded.
Anthony completely ignored the armed guards. He calmly picked up his coffee cup and took a slow, appreciative sip.
"Winston, let me ask you a hypothetical question. Do you genuinely believe John would possess the suicidal audacity to shoot Santino after Santino crosses the threshold of the hotel?"
"Because I bet... he absolutely dares."
Anthony reached into his pocket and slowly laid ten solid gold High Table coins across the marble tabletop. "Here is my wager."
Winston's aristocratic expression drastically changed.
Winston was deeply aware of Anthony's peculiar, terrifyingly accurate "prophetic" abilities. He had heard the impossible stories from both John and Marcus.
"Anthony, you wouldn't dare orchestrate..." Winston stuttered, momentarily flustered. He quickly turned toward the front desk. "Charon! The absolute second John Wick approaches the front steps, you are to personally physically intercept and guard him."
Charon slowly looked up from his ledger. "Yes, Manager."
Anthony casually shifted his gaze toward the impeccably dressed concierge.
If there genuinely existed a "power ceiling" within the John Wick universe, or if there was any single mortal entity whose sheer combat prowess could potentially rival the Baba Yaga's...
Aside from the legendary blind swordsman, Caine, the only other candidate was Charon.
If John Wick was universally recognized for his brutal, overwhelming kinetic suppression, Charon was the absolute epitome of flawless, surgical precision and mechanical efficiency.
Anthony distinctly remembered the hotel defense sequence from John Wick: Chapter 3. Charon had single-handedly engaged an army of over a hundred High Table operatives, systematically neutralizing one heavily armored, mechanized Enforcer every 1.5 seconds on average.
Utilizing his specialized shotgun and his intimate, geometric knowledge of the hotel's layout, Charon had successfully purchased Winston and John precious minutes to retreat to the vault, completely stalling a tier-one strike force.
And Charon had managed to accomplish all of that while keeping his bespoke suit perfectly neat and entirely spotless.
It was a profound, stark contrast to John's desperately bloody, exhausting, deeply visceral fighting style.
Charon's absolute combat prowess was demonstrated across three distinct dimensions: flawless weapon expertise, genius tactical battlefield control, and his unyielding symbolic status as the ultimate rule-keeper.
He was the hidden apex predator of the Continental series.
Sensing Anthony's gaze, Charon slowly turned his head, met the young mob boss's eyes, and offered a gentle, deeply polite smile.
Winston heavily sat down in the armchair opposite Anthony, accepted a fresh cup of coffee from a waiter, and looked incredibly anxious.
The heavy, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock only added to the suffocating silence of the lobby.
Anthony remained perfectly relaxed on the velvet sofa, casually flipping through an expensive, hardcover book titled A History of Roman Architecture that he had pulled from the coffee table.
Time ticked by agonizingly, second by second, entirely mirrored by Winston's increasingly panicked expression.
The heavy brass hands of the grandfather clock slowly clicked to exactly 8:15 AM.
Bright morning sunlight streamed obliquely through the towering, stained-glass windows, casting sharp, dagger-like spots of light across the polished marble floor.
Suddenly, the deep, imposing, roaring mechanical whine of heavy engines violently echoed from the street outside.
The roaring rapidly approached before screeching to a violently abrupt halt directly in front of the Continental's grand entrance.
A massive, heavily armored black Cadillac Escalade—looking exactly like a mobile, steel fortress—slammed to a halt at the bottom of the front steps.
It was immediately flanked by two fully armed SUV escort vehicles. The exact second the doors popped open, several burly Camorra bodyguards with fierce, desperate eyes poured out.
They aggressively scanned their surroundings, their weapons drawn, quickly establishing a tight, 360-degree defensive perimeter around the primary vehicle.
The armored Cadillac was an absolute wreck. It was completely riddled with deep bullet holes, and the thick ballistic glass was covered in dense, white spiderweb impact craters.
Their violent arrival instantly ratcheted the tension in the lobby to an absolute fever pitch.
Winston abruptly stood up, his body pulled as taut as a fully drawn bowstring, his eyes locked intensely on the front doors.
Behind the desk, Charon's hands continued to steadily and meticulously polish the brass room keys, completely refusing to even lift his head.
A surviving bodyguard respectfully yanked open the heavy, armored rear door of the Cadillac.
Santino D'Antonio had finally arrived.
However, he no longer looked like an untouchable aristocratic prince. His previously perfect, bespoke dark grey three-piece suit was heavily wrinkled and coated in masonry dust.
Dark, dried bloodstains—likely from his slaughtered bodyguards—spattered his pristine white shirt, and his carefully styled hair was wildly unkempt.
He stepped out of the vehicle, his eyes wide with genuine panic. However, the exact moment his desperate gaze locked onto the iconic bronze doors of the Continental Hotel, his panic instantly vanished, replaced by an overwhelming sense of profound relief.
He smugly adjusted his cuffs and offered a polite, deeply condescending nod to Winston, who was glaring at him from inside the lobby.
But when Santino's eyes shifted and he saw Anthony sitting comfortably on the sofa, offering him a warm, mocking smile, Santino's expression instantly froze.
"Santino," Anthony called out, his voice easily carrying through the open doors. "Is Ares currently dead?"
"Because if your mute attack dog were still breathing, I highly doubt you would have come sprinting back to the Continental with your tail tucked firmly between your legs like a stray, beaten mutt."
Santino aggressively snorted, refusing to engage in a petty verbal spar with the young Russian.
He slowly turned around to look back down the avenue. In the distance, a heavily damaged, roaring Ford Mustang was violently speeding toward the hotel.
A deeply disdainful, victorious smile spread across Santino's bruised face.
He didn't act like a desperate, hunted animal who had just barely survived a city-wide massacre. He acted as though he had just successfully conquered the entire world.
He arrogantly straightened the dusty lapels of his expensive suit and offered a casual, dismissive wave of his hand.
His surviving Camorra bodyguards instantly recognized the signal. They aggressively pushed forward, taking up highly tactical firing positions to completely block the avenue, establishing a kill zone roughly one hundred meters from the hotel steps.
Santino casually stepped behind the armored engine block of his Escalade. He slightly raised his chin, his deeply arrogant gaze sweeping back toward the bronze gates that symbolized absolute, untouchable security.
"Anthony," Santino yelled over the idling engines, offering a deeply mysterious, condescending smile. "I am fully aware that you desperately want John Wick to successfully execute me today."
"But let's think about this logically, boy. Even assuming John manages to magically slaughter my remaining elite bodyguards..."
Santino pointed lazily toward the marble steps of the hotel entrance. "Starting from a distance of one hundred meters... who do you think is realistically going to reach those sanctuary doors faster? Me? Or him?"
"Or perhaps..." Santino mocked, his eyes gleaming with malicious delight, "you possess the suicidal audacity to attempt to shoot me right here, under Winston's nose?"
The three Continental Enforcers instantly tightened their perimeter around Anthony, placing their hands on their holstered weapons, completely eliminating any possibility of him drawing a gun.
Anthony simply chuckled. He playfully shook the heavy stack of gold coins in his hand. "Winston... my wager remains absolutely valid."
For some inexplicable reason, Anthony's profound calmness made Winston feel incredibly nervous.
Winston quickly glanced down the avenue at John Wick, who had just violently exited the wrecked Mustang and was currently engaging the Camorra blockade. Winston then looked back at Anthony, his mind desperately racing.
Suddenly, a terrifying realization slammed into Winston's mind. He stared in absolute horror at the towering skyscraper situated directly across the street from the hotel entrance.
"No," Charon's smooth voice suddenly spoke up from the front desk, completely shattering Winston's panic. "He is not there, Manager."
Winston let out a massive, shuddering sigh of profound relief.
If Marcus had been utilizing that specific rooftop as a sniper hide, Santino would be absolutely doomed before his foot ever touched the steps.
Violent, suppressed gunfire began erupting rapidly down the street.
Santino didn't immediately rush into the absolute safety of the Continental. Instead, he stood casually by his car, watching with absolute, detached amusement as John systematically and brutally slaughtered his final wave of bodyguards. Santino showed absolutely no fear whatsoever.
"John!" Santino shouted, completely uncaring if the Baba Yaga could actually hear him over the gunfire. "You will never truly understand the beauty of the rules!"
"Rules were specifically designed for pathetic, low-level thugs to blindly follow. But for men like me... the rules were exclusively designed to protect us!"
Winston frowned deeply in profound disgust at the blatant mockery, but he did not step outside to intervene.
Anthony maintained his soft, mocking smile.
He knew exactly what Santino was attempting to accomplish. Santino was actively trying to psychologically taunt and distract John, desperately hoping to create a microscopic opening for one of his bodyguards to land a lucky kill shot.
"John! So what if you managed to successfully hunt me all the way back here?!" Santino mocked as John executed the final two guards. "This is the Continental Hotel! Do you genuinely believe you possess the sheer audacity to lay a finger on me here?!"
"If the Continental is considered the 'church' of our world... then you, John Wick, are absolutely nothing but a pathetic coward who lacks the guts to curse God inside His own house!"
Santino laughed loudly, his voice carrying the chilling, highly venomous edge of a striking viper.
"Look at yourself! You are supposed to be the legendary, unstoppable Boogeyman! Yet now, you are completely powerless! You can only stand there and watch me helplessly!"
"You successfully fulfilled my greatest dream by killing my sister. And now, as a direct reward, I am the one permanently protected by the absolute, sacred laws of the High Table!"
"You cannot kill me, John! You will simply have to follow me around for the rest of your pathetic life, exactly like a loyal, obedient dog!"
Anthony suddenly threw his head back and laughed. It was a genuine, deeply amused, booming laugh.
Winston physically flinched, completely taken aback by Anthony's sudden outburst.
The six eyes of the three heavy Enforcers locked instantly onto the young Russian.
"Santino," Anthony yelled out, stepping closer to the open bronze doors, looking down at the wildly arrogant Camorra boss with absolute, freezing contempt.
"Do you even know the correct, authorized method of cashing in a High Table Blood Oath?"
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